


you and my hometown

by smileymikey



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Post-Break Up, really not that angsty all things considered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28272111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileymikey/pseuds/smileymikey
Summary: Isak is putting on his coat when Sana says, “Did you hear that Even is coming back?”or, four years ago, Even left Oslo for LA to pursue his dreams of becoming a director. Now, he’s back.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 34
Kudos: 177





	you and my hometown

**Author's Note:**

> title from tis the damn season by taylor swift

Isak is putting on his coat when Sana says, “Did you hear that Even is coming back?”

His fingers pause from where they are closed around his zipper, and he looks up. Sana is still bent over the microscope, jotting something down in her notes: casual enough that to an outsider it holds as much weight as an invitation out for coffee.

Sana is the cleverest person Isak knows, but she’s also a shit liar.

He swipes at his lower lip. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Elias told me last night.”

Isak nods.

Sana looks up finally. Her gaze is tinged with something like sympathy. “Just thought you’d want to know,” she says. A long pause. Isak lets go of the zipper, flexes his fingers. “America, right?”

“Los Angeles.”

She whistles lowly, puts her eye back to the microscope. “Warm, there.”

“Mm.”

Warmer than here. Especially now. Out the window, rain forms bulbs around the streetlamps: if he squints, it looks like snow.

“Well,” she says. “Just letting you know.”

He kicks the toe of his against the ground. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good work today.”

“Not as good as you.”

“Never as good as me,” but now she’s smiling and looking faintly annoyed about it. Isak feels his own mouth involuntarily twitch up a genuine smile in return. “Go home.”

“See you tomorrow, Sanasol.”

“See you.”

It’s dark outside when he leaves, winter draping the sky in shadows even though it’s barely five. There is a smattering of rain that stings when it hits him, unforgiving against the chill, so he shrugs his shoulders up to his ears and tugs down his hat as he heads towards the train station.

Thing is: he’d known. He sees Sigrid every week, and the last time he’d visited – under the guise of help in the garden, even though it’s been long enough they both know that’s all it is now – she’d mentioned that Even was thinking about returning home for the holidays and how she thinks he’d like it if Isak visited. They don’t talk about Even a lot, even though at the beginning it was all they had in common: the ex-boyfriend and the mother, who didn’t let him go far after they broke up. Why, Isak’s still not sure – sympathy, probably, the knowledge that his own mother was in a facility and his father had fucked off somewhere across the country. He’d resented it, at first. Even after all this time, he can’t deal with pity.

It’s something he’s grown to appreciate, though, when he learned that Sigrid was lonely, too. That it was for him – but also a little for her. Even took up so much room when he was around that when he left they both had felt it, like someone had carved out a hole in their stomachs.

Besides. It wasn’t even just that, either.

The train wheezes into the station, dirt-smattered and smudged with condensation around the windows. It’s late enough that rush hour is beginning to dissipate, so he can find a pole to lean up against as he pulls his phone out from his pocket and opens up his texts.

His most recent is from his mum, a picture of a slightly battered-looking flower and the caption, _Isn’t God so clever?_ Then there’s one from Sana from this afternoon, _hurry UP Isabel, *I’m* going to start growing spores at this rate_ , and a meme from Eskild, who is apparently going through his middle-aged-mother-on-Facebook crisis.

Then, from yesterday, at five forty-two in the morning, twenty forty-two in Los Angeles time: a text from Even.

_Hi Isak. It’s Even. I don’t know if you still use this number but I thought I’d give it a try just in case. (Hello, if you are not Isak.) I’m coming back to Oslo on the fourteenth for Christmas, and I wondered if you’d maybe like to hang out once I’m there. I’d like to you see you. I missed you._

_Even x_

It’s honestly so fucking like him to do something like this, to slide back into his life as seamlessly as if he never left. As though it hasn’t been four years. As though they’re still in a place where he can say _I missed you_ and not threaten to slowly crack Isak’s chest open rib by rib.

But Isak guesses that’s just Even. Magnetic enough that time spirals into nothing around him, like a wormhole in spacetime, like they can take each other’s hands and go back to seventeen.

And so:

_That would be nice._

And: _Do you need someone to pick you up from the airport?_

And: _I missed you, too._

So yeah. Isak knew.

*

Norway experiences its first snowfall of the year the day Even is scheduled to return.

It’s been cold for a while, cold enough that the near-constant drizzle has been more sleet than rain, so it feels like an inevitable breaking when the first snowflake lands on Isak’s windscreen, like a sigh of relief. Isak has never been particularly interested about the weather, but he rolls down the window and sticks his hand out, catches the second in his open palm.

It melts in the moment it takes to bring his hand back into the car, and he watches the water pool in the lines of his palm. Then the car behind him honks, and he wipes his hand on his jeans and keeps driving.

The airport is relatively busy for this time of day, as he pulls into the parking lot. He can see people all around, carting trolleys and suitcases filled with things, hugging each other goodbye, or hello, brushing snow off each other’s shoulders and pulling up umbrellas to shield themselves from the weather. He finds a parking spot in between two big shiny vehicles that make his own little car look even more pathetic in comparison. As he locks it, he pauses and considers it for a moment, before shaking his head and moving towards the lift.

If outside was bad, inside is even worse: bustling with people, crowded, a sea of shouting and cardboard signs. He didn’t bring a sign, which now he’s slightly regretting. What if Even doesn’t recognise him? He doesn’t think he’s changed that much in four years, except a meagre attempt at stubble and a few extra inches of height, but he’s not arrogant enough to assume Even’s thought about him as much as he’s thought about him.

As far as he knows, to Even he is just an abstraction, a flicker in his memory.

Fuck. He really should have brought a sign.

He stands by the arrivals gate with the rest of the people, arms folded self-consciously in front of his chest, looking out for a tall blond head amidst the crowd. Still, there are so many people, it’s difficult to discern much of anything, let alone a single person, and after a few, long minutes of nothing, Isak’s about ready to give up. He’s just reaching in his pocket for his phone, when, from out of the corner of his eye, he spots a familiar face, and he turns.

And then:

Him.

Standing in the middle of the airport like it is the most natural thing, like him being back in Oslo hasn’t ruptured the very fabric of Isak’s reality. No one looks good in airports, but Even does, because of fucking course he does. He has a habit of making every place he exists in a little better just for him having been there. He is still tall as ever, long longs and long body, blond hair, deflated a little from the flight into his eyes, wrapped in a denim jacket far too impractical for the unforgiving cold of a Norway winter and a pair of sneakers that look brand new. He is turned away, peering through the crowds for something; from his vantage point, Isak can see his side profile, flushed cheeks and red mouth, twisted a little in concentration as he scans the room.

All at once, he is too big and too bright for this tiny, dirty airport. Isak can see people do a double take as they pass him: maybe they recognise him, or maybe it’s just Even. He is like a honing signal.

Or maybe that’s just Isak.

“Even,” he tries, but it comes out broken, the first time his mouth has formed the word in a long, long time. He licks his lips, tries again: “ _Even_.”

Loud enough, this time. Even pivots on one of his new sneakers, and his blue eyes land on him for the first time in four years. They go wide, and his wide red mouth turns into a smile: not a big one like Isak sees online, whenever he’s three beers deep and hates himself enough to search up Even’s name, but something small, private, and so fucking pleased that Isak wants to look away.

“Isak,” his mouth forms, barely audible over the bustle of the rest of the airport. It’s continued moving. Isak doesn’t understand how it can. “Isak.”

He’s coming over now, dragging his suitcase behind him. He feels taller but Isak doesn’t have to look up any higher than he used to: he’s grown, too. His hair is longer, lighter from the sun, nose dotted in freckles and crease lines deeper around his eyes. “Isak,” he says again, and then when he’s close enough, pauses.

“Hey,” Isak says.

“Hi,” he says, and then:

Hugs him.

Hugs him like it’s only been four days, like he did when the weekend was long, or the day was hard. Like back when Isak’s safest place was in his arms. Even has always hugged with his whole body, like he does with everything, hand rubbing up and down on his shoulder, a hug that’s good in a way Isak resents. He resents the way that Even is still generous with his touch in a way that Isak has stopped being, was only ever when it was with Even, generous enough to want to extend it to Isak even though it’s been four years and they’re in an airport and Even’s nose is sunburnt whilst Isak’s toes are frozen in his shoes.

Isak still clings back to him, though. Because what else is there to do?

Even pulls back after a long, long moment, long enough that Isak almost forgets everything that has happened. “Hey,” he says again, in that private way they used to do: _hello_ to everyone, and then again, later, something quiet for the two of them. “It’s good to see you.”

Generous with his words, too. “You, too,” Isak says, instead of _I feel like I am breaking apart_. When Even doesn’t, he takes a step back, and then has to look away from his earnest blue gaze, too; instead his eyes fall down onto his hands, naked to the cold amidst the dozens of gloves across the airport. There’s a faded pink string tied around his wrist. Isak tries. “Four months in LA and you still couldn’t manage a tan?”

Even glances down at his long, pale fingers like for a moment he’d forgotten what colour he was, and then laughs, head thrown back. “You can take the boy out of Norway, but you can’t take the Norway out of the boy,” he says. Swipes a finger self-consciously down the burnt part of his nose, winces at the skin that comes away with it. “This’ll be the first time in years I won’t be shedding skin like this.”

His voice has changed, a little. There’s a touch of an accent, his Norwegian tinged only a little with it. It’s evident he hasn’t spoken Norwegian in a while, and for some reason the thought makes Isak sad.

“How was your flight?” he says, instead.

“Long.”

“What’s it? Fifteen hours?”

“Seventeen.”

Isak knew that. He’d Googled it so many times in the beginning it became the first to auto-complete whenever he searched something beginning with _how_ , like even his laptop was reminding him that there were seventeen hours and a whole lot of miles in between them. The first time that _time and space_ felt like a metric instead of a concept.

“Very long,” he says, instead.

“At least there were movies to watch.” He smiles, a little shyly. “Mine was there.”

At once Isak is so unbearably happy for him. It’s weird, especially when he still feels like someone is jumping up and down on his heart. “Hey. That’s great.”

“Kind of surreal.”

“That’s when you know you’ve made it. When your movie makes it onto an aeroplane.”

“The woman next to me was watching it. It took everything in me not to talk to her about it.”

“Would’ve been a bit weird.”

“I don’t know, Isak,” Even says, and he smiles in the way that creases his eyes into crescent moons, “I think it would have been a good story. She would have gone back home and told her husband that she’d met a debonair young director who changed her outlook on life.”

Isak’s heart trips traitorously. Even the most mundane is lovely with Even. “Maybe she lives alone.”

“Maybe,” Even says, “but I like to imagine that everyone is as happy as they could be.”

Kind, even to strangers. He is taller, his hair longer, skin freckled with time, but he is still so closely tethered to the boy who goaded Isak into breaking into a house and then kissed him in its pool. The boy Isak fell in love with. The boy he sometimes still is in love with.

This was a mistake, Isak thinks. He shouldn’t have come here, invited this new-old Even back into his new-old life. It’s been four years. Isak made himself get over him. He was just not anticipating this beautiful, settled version of him to show up in a denim jacket and the same kind, easy smile like he’s in love with every fucking thing he lays eyes on.

“We should go,” Isak says. “Beat the traffic.”

“Oh.” Even jerks, like he’d forgotten that they are still in an airport. “Yeah, of course.”

The snow is coming down harder than ever when they emerge, blanketing the runway in white. Seas of umbrellas go up, people kicking up troughs in the snow as they push towards the doors. Isak does a half-turn for his keys and sees Even behind him, out of place amidst the ocean of parkas, staring up at the sky with an expression of utter wonderment on his face. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up, the snow soothing his burnt nose, covering up the evidence of his years away with the cold of Norway again.

“It’s so lovely,” Even says.

Isak bites his smile back. “Aren’t you cold?”

“I haven’t had to wear a coat in a while.” Even’s eyes reflect the snow. They have business being so goddamn bright. “This is the first time I’ve seen snow in years.”

“How strange, I thought Los Angeles was famous for its snow.”

“The gods must have held back while I was there. Too much snow for the pasty Scandinavian, they said. Sun, instead. You know there’s such thing as too much sun?”

“I don’t believe that.”

Even glances at him, head still tilted back. There is something mischievous in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I’m a scientist, so.”

“Very credible,” Even teases. He opens his palm, catches a snowflake in his hand. Isak wonders what he is seeing: wonders even after all this time, after the movies and the awards and the acclaim, if he still views the world through the viewfinder of an aspiring filmmaker. Wonders if there’s even still a point. “I missed it. The snow.”

“Yeah?” Isak says, and Even gives him a look that makes his heart pound a little. He wants to ask: _just the snow?_

But Even just says, “Didn’t you say something about traffic?”

Having Even fold his long body in the passenger seat of Isak’s old wheezy Toyota is surreal in a way Isak didn’t anticipate. He knows the car is a bit of a shitbox – Jonas affectionately calls it Dumptruck and Sana still smirks a little whenever she sees it – but he’s never properly felt embarrassed of it until Even is inside it, bringing with him the smell of rain and something faintly spiced: his cologne, probably, one Isak doesn’t recognise. Still, Even doesn’t look anything but settled, as he leans forward and starts fiddling with the radio stations, already so comfortable in the space. Isak knows it’s just an Even thing, friendly, personable Even, but he knows it’s also a little to do with the Even-shaped holes he’s left gaping open in his life, ready to be occupied again.

Even finally settles on a radio station playing Christmas music, something in English with lots of bells. “To get us in the Christmas spirit,” he says.

“This? It’s shit.”

“Shh,” Even says, “embrace it.” He starts softly mouthing along to it, half a second behind as he tries to copy the words.

Isak has to look away from him. “Where am I dropping you?”

“My parents’.”

“No fancy AirBnB?”

“Needed somewhere familiar.” Even watches Isak turn onto the motorway. “I forget you and Mum are still in contact. It makes me happy.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s nice that you see her.”

Isak’s not sure how to tell Even that it’s not just for Sigrid’s sake that Isak sees her. That Oslo without Even feels a lot emptier and lonelier, and, while less and less frequently, sometimes Isak needs the company as much as she does. So instead he just says, “Mm,” and turns the radio up.

It’s not a long drive, but Even falls asleep against the window anyway, temple against the window, eyes fluttering beneath his eyelids. At a traffic light, Isak takes the time to just admire him. Like this, he is not that different from the Even of four years ago: his hair is lighter, skin a little darker, and there are more smile lines around his eyes. Isak suddenly feels a pang deep in his stomach, at all these smiles he wasn’t privy to, all these smiles earned by different people he doesn’t know about. When he smiling and fiddling with the radio and humming along to Christmas songs it’s easy to forget that they’re not still together, but like this, when evidence of their years apart is staring Isak right in the face, it feels like a punch to the gut.

Of course they’re not together. It’s been years. Even probably has someone at home. Someone beautiful and willowy, like Sonja, a supermodel or an actress in one of his movies or someone who can sing and play guitar and writes ballads about how great their sex is. Or maybe—maybe another man. Maybe someone tall and strong who will watch movies with him and make him soup when he’s depressed. Someone who will hold him and love him in the way Isak couldn’t.

Isak bites down on his lip and changes the station. Not today.

It’s only another few minutes before Isak is turning into a familiar street, and pulling to a stop outside of the very house he’d been inside only a few days ago. In the windows, he can see the silhouettes of Even’s parents through the curtains, and he bites down on his lower lip to suppress the want that rises in his chest. Instead, he turns to look at Even, still asleep against the car window, mouth parted, dusty eyelashes resting against the tops of his flushed cheeks.

“Even,” he says, and then, “Even,” again, louder, when he doesn’t move the first time. Even’s eyelids flutter, and he begins to stir, sitting up, and pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Sorry,” Isak says, not sorry at all. Tired Even was always one of his favourite Evens. “We’re here.”

“Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus,” Even murmurs, and rolls his shoulder. “So much for scintillating company. Sorry.”

“Long flight. I get it.”

“Mm.” Even stifles a yawn, and then looks over at Isak, lids heavy over his eyes, a soft smile at his mouth. “Do you want to come in? They’d be glad to see you.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got work to finish.”

Even looks adorably disgruntled at this, but he acquiesces with another stretch. “Okay,” he says softly, and then, without even a moment’s pause, leans over the gearshift and pulls Isak into another hug, entirely self-consciously, like it’s something they do all the time. It’s all Isak can do not to bury his face into the crook of Even’s neck, sleep-warm and as comforting as it was at seventeen, but he is helpless against the way his arms automatically come around his shoulders, squeezing him back, their cheeks brushing against each other. Even lets out a contented hum that Isak feels vibrate against him before pulling back, letting his hands linger: shoulders, elbows, before one loosely circles Isak’s wrist, a finger pressing briefly against his pulse point.

“Thanks for picking me up,” he says, softly.

Isak’s throat feels thick. “Anytime.”

“We should hang out,” Even says. “If you’d want. I’ve missed you.”

This is a dangerous game, now, one Isak can already see the ending of, falling so easily into the careless rabbit hole of loving Even again, but he’s always been glutton for punishment, so:

“I’d like that,” he says. “Yeah.”

Even’s smile is small but so fucking pleased Isak finds it a little hard to look at it straight-on. “Cool,” he says. “I’ll text you?”

“Yeah.”

For a few long moments, neither of them move. Then Even nods and opens the door, swinging his long legs out. Isak watches as he disappears around the side of the car, listens to the click of the boot as he hauls his suitcase out, and then the sound of wheels against the tarmac as he circles around to Isak’s side of the car to head up the front steps.

Before he enters the gate, however, he pauses, and half-turns, so he’s looking back at Isak, and waves. Isak can only wave back, and watch in silence as Even nods again, and then heads up the path to the front door.

Isak starts the engine and pulls away before the front door can open, not wanting Sigrid to catch sight of him and invite him in. As he drives away, he can still the phantom touch of Even’s fingers around his wrist.

*

“You’re doing it wrong.”

If Isak had a kroner every time he heard Sana says that he’d probably be able to pay off his student loans. “Maybe because you’re distracting me.”

Sana scoffs. “I’m not doing anything. Your stitches are wonky by themselves.”

“They’re fine.”

“Let me do it.”

“Don’t you trust me, Sanasol?”

“Not with this. Give me the needle driver.”

Isak rolls his eyes, but he does so anyway, stepping aside so Sana can bend over the suture pad. “Your technique is all wrong,” she mutters, bending closer. “What do you call this?”

“That’s why I have you,” Isak says, and Sana gives him an unimpressed look.

“What do you bring, then? Bad sutures?”

“A sense of humour, for one.” Isak kind of deserves the elbow to the side for that. “I ace the tests. You ace the practicals.”

“Hm,” Sana says, which means he’s right. She catches him smiling and says, “Your technique is still bad.”

He just hums, leaning against the side of the table to watch her as she focuses back on the pad. Then, from inside his bag across the room, his phone goes off.

“Phone on in the lab?” Sana says, half-distractedly, bent close to the pad. “Unprofessional.”

Like Yousef doesn’t text her cute things that make her blush throughout their study sessions. Isak just flips her off and hears the sound of her laughter as he heads across the room and retrieves it from his bag, not even checking the caller before bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Look out the window.”

Isak frowns. “ _Even_?”

Sana looks up at that.

“Hi,” Even says, giddily. Isak has to pull the phone away just to check the caller ID in case he’s hearing things, but sure enough _Even Kosegruppa_ is displayed across the screen. Disbelieving, he brings the phone back to his ear. He can almost hear Even’s smile through the line. “Look out the window, come on.”

Still a little in shock, Isak dubiously does so, keeping the phone pressed to his ear. “Am I meant to be seeing something?”

“What can you see?”

“Snow?”

“Can’t you see me?”

“Unless you have turned into a blonde girl drinking coffee on a bench, no.”

“What building are you in?”

“D.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Isak can’t help the snort that escapes him. “Are you at the wrong building?”

“Well, let’s say that a room of students who aren’t you just got a very merry Christmas. Hold on.”

Isak huffs out a laugh, and turns back against the sill, arms folded, listening to the sound of Even’s breaths through the phone as he presumably scurries across campus. Like this, he faces Sana, whose eyebrows have almost disappeared into her hijab. She gives him a look he tries his very best to ignore.

“You’re not going around flashing students, are you?” he says instead. Sana just blinks and turns back to the suture pad.

“Please, like I’d do something so uncouth. That’s only reserved for first dates in hotel rooms.”

It’s so unexpected Isak chokes. “Jesus, Even.”

“What’s trauma if you can’t laugh about it? Look now.”

Isak does. Standing on the quad with a phone pressed against his ear is Even, bundled in a coat and waving. Isak bites down on his smile and waves back, and Even’s radiant smile grows impossibly brighter.

“Come down,” Even says.

Isak raises an eyebrow, knowing Even can see. “I’m in the middle of a project. Maybe I’m busy.”

“Surely not enough so that you’ll turn down a hangout with an old friend?”

“You’ll have to make it worth my while, then.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m not beneath bribery.”

“With what?”

“Hot chocolate. Unless you’d be up for flashing instead?”

Isak snorts. “Yeah, no. Keep your coat on, LA boy.”

Even grins. “Come on! It’s a nice day.”

Isak glances behind him back into the room at Sana, who rolls her eyes and gestures towards the door. “Okay,” he says. “Don’t get a big head, I’m only coming for the hot chocolate.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Even says warmly. “See you.”

“See you.”

“So,” Sana says, when Isak hangs up.

Isak gives her a warning look as he shucks off his lab coat. “Not a word.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she says, which is a lie, because Sana always has something to say. She just stands there as he zips up his coat and grabs his bag, and says, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Isak’s fingers slow around the straps of his bag. “No,” he says. “Not really.”

Sana nods, expression inscrutable. “Well,” she says, after a long moment, “tell him the Bakkoush family say hi.”

Isak grins, relieved. “Thanks for covering me.”

“Trust me,” she says, “I’m doing us both a favour by redoing this.” But her eyes are warm. “Go on, he’s waiting.”

“See you tomorrow, Sanasol.”

“Have fun.”

Isak takes the steps two at a time. Thing is, he knows Sana’s hesitance is warranted. Right at the very beginning of university, both of them reluctantly sat next to each other because they had the same lectures and no other friends present, they’d learnt all about risk assessment and its importance in conducting experiments safely. Isak knows if he were to take a risk assessment of this, he’d already have broken most the rules, because the only thing at risk is falling into the trap of loving Even again, and the necessary precautions would have been to not answer Even’s text in the first place, let alone offer to pick him up, drive him home and now come see him at school. Entirely against Isak’s will, Even is carving out a space for himself again, and Isak’s just letting him, because the scabbing over the holes he left behind were paper-thin.

The problem is, loving Even is just so easy, and in the face of his smile it’s hard to think the pain of him leaving again won’t at least be a little worth it.

Isak emerges from the stairwell, blinking the spots from his vision as he adjusts to the bright daylight from having been cooped up in an empty classroom for so long. Even’s standing a few metres away, hands in his pockets, blue eyes upturned and admiring the snow-leaden trees, but he must hear the crunch of Isak’s footsteps because when he looks over his eyes brighten.

“Isak,” he says, coming over to him. He doesn’t pull him into a hug this time like Isak was expecting, instead just stops a foot away, hands in his pocket, expression so unbearably, earnestly pleased that the Isak thinks a hug may have been less intimate. “Hi.” His expression is void of any ulterior motives, just a sparkly-eyed grin, cheeks red in the cold.

“Even,” Isak says, “hi,” and Even’s smile goes wide. Isak has to look away, and instead his gaze catches on what he’s wearing. “I see you’ve upgraded from a denim jacket.”

Even glances down at the puffa he’s wearing like he’d forgotten he was wearing it. “Oh, yeah,” he says, with a rueful grin. “Mum almost had a heart attack when I walked in, hence this.” He stretches a little, and flashes of his pale white wrists emerge from the ends of the sleeves. “Pretty sure this is from the last time I was here, so it’s a bit small.”

“It’s all just a scheme to get the American out of you. Must’ve thought regressing you back to nineteen-year-old Even would help.”

Even grins. “Yeah?”

“Let’s test it. Name a state.”

“Freezing?”

“What?”

“Like... a state of matter?”

“Jesus,” Isak says, but a little delightedly, because even four years of fame and money and acclaim couldn’t get Even to be less than a dork. “Well, clearly I don’t need to ask if it worked.”

“Oh.” Even actually blushes. “You meant a state of America.”

“I did.”

Even laughs so loudly the blonde girl drinking coffee on the bench looks over. His laughter forms clouds in the air. “Wow, I am not cool. The coat is powerful.”

“It is.” Isak puts his hands in his pockets before they can do something insane like reach out and trace the shape of Even’s face. “Now, I believe you said something about bribery?”

They get hot chocolate from a café off the main road, one Isak’s spent far too many late nights at blearily going over flashcards with Sana until they’re nodding off into their laptops, and together they walk along the street with their take-out cups cradled in their hands. Even gets his piled high with whipped cream, just like he always did, and gets a spot on his nose that Isak unthinkingly swipes off with his thumb. Even blinks at him, eyes crossed a little, and Isak’s heart momentarily starts as he realises what he’s done, but before he can throw himself into oncoming traffic Even just smiles at him and bumps their shoulders together.

“So,” Isak says, “where are we going?”

“I need to do some last-minute Christmas shopping.”

Isak gives him a look. “You pulled me out of a project for _shopping_?”

“Still a Grinch, I see.”

“Christmas and shopping are not synonymous.”

“For sticklers, maybe.”

“I thought you didn’t subscribe to the commercialisation of Christmas.”

“You sound like Mikael.”

“Jonas talked to me so much about it I sometimes see Karl Marx in my dreams.”

“Even Karl Marx would excuse present shopping as the one exception to capitalism. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Isak sighs long-sufferingly. “Fine. Only because you bought me hot chocolate.”

He almost misses Even’s blinding smile as he wrestles the plastic lid his off cup to drain the last of his drink.

Unsurprising, the shopping centre is bustling with people also presumably on last-minute present runs. Within the first few seconds Isak and Even are almost bowled over by someone carrying a teddy-bear that is at least five feet tall, and once Isak adjusts to the noise and bustle he becomes aware of at least three different children crying. Even looks delighted, probably thrilled now he’s in his natural habitat of excess interaction. Isak is already done.

What he is not expecting, though, are the looks they get as they navigate the crowds. They’re not frequent enough for him to notice immediately, and dismissing any he does spot as someone doing a double take at Even, who has always drawn eyes. (Isak has a theory that even if he weren’t handsome, he’d still be a magnetic field, because there is something just so innately compelling about Even.) It isn’t until there’s a flash somewhere in his peripheral, and he turns to see a gaggle of teenage girls looking mortified and trying to hide a phone in one of their coats, that he realises that there’s something else going on.

He glances at Even, trying to see if he’s as just confused, but Even looks more disbelieving than confused.

And then Isak remembers that while to him, Even is just Even, to everyone else, he’s Even the director.

“Do you get that a lot?” he says in a low voice, as they head into a store. “The... photographs?”

“Not in Los Angeles,” Even says. He looks a little surprised, like he can’t quite believe that happened. “But here...”

“No one famous comes from Norway. You’re our claim to fame.”

Even gives him a look. “I’m barely famous.”

“Famous enough.”

“Hm.” Even still looks a little starstruck, but he seems more flattered than irritated, running his long clever fingers over the card aisle with a pleased smile on his face. It’s a lot cuter than it has any right to be, and, a little annoyed with himself, Isak frowns at the display in front of him, _Christmas Cards For Dad!_ Eskild would probably find one of these funny. Either that or the wine mum joke cards that he giggles himself silly on.

Isak ends up buying one of each, unable to choose (the reject will go to Linn, who barely even reads the card) and Even buys a pack of five, with a Christmas tree with googly eyes on the front. Isak can’t help but note the number as they walk out.

“None for your friends back home?” he says lightly.

Even glances down at the cards in his hands. “Oh. No, I guess not.”

“Just the inner circle.”

“It’s a competitive thing, that. Lots of applicants every year to make it into the chosen five.”

Isak doesn’t ask if one of them is for him. “Why is that?”

“Didn’t you hear, Isak? I’m famous now.”

“No, not that. Why you’re not sending any to your friends.”

“Oh.” Even twists his mouth consideringly, and Isak suddenly feels like he’s made a mistake.

“Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” He sighs, but not unhappily: more thoughtfully, like it’s not something he’d really thought about. “I’m not sure, actually. I have friends back there, but...”

“None prestigious enough for the inner circle?”

Even huffs a laugh. “Yeah. I guess so. I don’t know. I think just... coming back home, to Oslo, it’s just made me realise how... I don’t know. How _much_ Los Angeles is, all the time. Like someone’s just turned the saturation on it too high. I love it, of course, and it’s given me so much, and it’s full of such brilliant, talented people, but...” He pauses, thinking. He never used to think about his words, like this. Isak thinks he likes this quieter, more thoughtful Even. He is still just as bright, but he is no longer bursting at the seams. He is settled, comfortable in his skin. “When I’m manic, everything is... too much. Heightened. Like someone increased the brightness. And LA had its quiet times, of course, but... that’s how kind of how it felt, being there. Like everything was too much. Too bright. Too big.” His eyes clear, and he nudges their shoulders together. “It’s why coming home is nice. It’s quieter, here. Calmer. I feel like I can breathe.”

That makes one of them. Isak thinks he has been holding his breath the entire time. “And there’s snow,” he says.

Even grins. “Yeah. And there’s snow.”

“Why do you stay, then? If you don’t like it?”

“I do like it. I think I just need to come home more often. I forgot how much there is to miss here.”

Isak feels like his heart’s in his fucking ears. “Oh.”

Even gives him a sidelong look, and bumps their elbows together. “What about you? What are you doing for Christmas?”

Isak’s getting used to Even’s sudden conversation changes. It’s always something new, with him. “I don’t know, actually.”

Even looks dismayed at the possibility. “How can you not know what you’re doing for Christmas?”

“Well, normally I spend it with Eskild, Linn and Noora, but Linn and Noora are away and Eskild is spending it with his boyfriend.” Isak shrugs. “It’ll probably just me at home watching Narcos and eating takeout.”

This is almost hilariously upsetting to Even. “You have to spend it with us, then,” he says. Isak opens his mouth to protest, because no _way_ can he invade on a family Christmas like that, but Even cuts him off. “Before you argue, Mum and Dad both want you there. Mum made me ask but I would have done anyway.”

“Even, I can’t possibly—”

“Please? You can’t spend Christmas by yourself the year I’m home.”

Isak feels his resolve begin to waver. Still, he tries one last time. “Even...”

“Please?” Even says, softer. “It—it would make me really happy. If you were there.”

And how the fuck can Isak say no to that? He heaves a sigh. “Fine,” he acquiesces, and Even’s face lights up. “You’ll regret it when I make you watch Terminator in the evening.”

“For you, Isak,” Even says, swinging an arm over his shoulders, “I’d even suffer through Terminator.”

*

Christmas, surprisingly, goes well.

Isak, as a rule of thumb, generally tries to avoid pity invites. He’s no stranger to them, Jonas having invited him to every holiday event when Isak was still living at home with his mum. Isak attended only one, an Easter Sunday meal where he ate exactly what was served on his plate and nothing more, not wanting to be an inconvenience. Jonas’s mother asked a little about his mum, and spent the rest of the meal sharing her concerned looks between Isak, Jonas and Jonas’s father. She meant well, of course she did, and Jonas had cracked jokes all throughout the meal to make Isak feel less out of place, and they continued extending invitations even after it became clear Isak would never attend another Vasquez family meal. But, while they all came from a place of love, Isak couldn’t stand the pitying looks. It was evident he didn’t fit in, that he was only there because he was Jonas’s friend and his mum wasn’t well, that he was disrupting the family time. The glares Thea sent him across the table were hint enough.

Because of it, he’s gotten used to doing things by himself. He’s an introvert at heart, so spending time alone isn’t an issue for him: instead, it’s comforting, especially around the holidays, knowing he’s not causing any stress or inconvenience. The only reason why he lets Christmas at the Kollektiv pass is because he lived with them during the grouchiest years of his life, and he’s pretty sure nothing short of throwing the entire turkey out the window and setting the place on fire could upstage any of his worst moments at sixteen.

In fact, one of the last Christmases he remembers feeling entirely contented at was... well.

The ones with Even.

He walks into Christmas with the Bech Naesheims with the same apprehension he walked into the Vasquez Easter dinner, bracing himself for the worst. Unlike Easter, as well as the awkwardness of a family having to carve out space for an outsider, there’s also the added discomfort of Even being Isak’s ex-boyfriend, and Sigrid and Jan being privy to them falling in love, and then Isak being left behind.

But... it’s actually really nice.

Even takes after his father in that they are both extroverts, personable and talkative, so Isak is content to take the backseat with most the conversation, just sitting back and listening. There is lots of food, so much that Isak’s pretty sure the leftovers will last them until the new year, but Even never gives him a moment of being afraid that he’s inconveniencing them by taking more, continuously sliding him the plate of potatoes and offering him more turkey. He tells them stories about Los Angeles and the remarkable people he met there, how his short film even came about, what it was like working on it. He’s always been such a story-teller, so easy to listen to, that Isak can’t even pretend to not be hanging off his every word. In the waning daylight, sunken below the horizon before the click has even ticked past five pm, his face is lit golden from the light fixture on the ceiling; he looks like something out of a storybook, something lovely and gentle and beautiful.

The evening smudges his features a little, softens him. If Isak squints he can almost see the boy at nineteen who would kiss him every morning as _hello_ and every evening as _goodbye_.

It’s getting harder and harder to stop himself from slipping back into the rabbit hole. But it seems to have its own gravitational force, a wormhole, a crack in spacetime, and he is helpless against its pull.

Later that night, once the food has been cleared away and they’re all satiated and satisfied, they migrate to the living room, where they put on a movie. Not Terminator, Even says to Isak with an eyebrow wiggle that Isak rolls his eyes at. Love Actually, this year, an annual watch back at the Kollektivet that Eskild would use as an opportunity to ogle Hugh Grant; if Noora got drunk enough, she would do the same to Kiera Knightley, but in the Noora way, where she would compliment her hair and then duck into her wine glass, pink around the ears. It’s of Even’s favourite movies, Isak remembers, they watched it a few times together, and Even would always excitedly murmur into Isak’s ear about how carefully and tightly crafted the narrative had to be in order to accommodate so many stories and how well it paid off, and Isak would always grumble and tell him to shut up, but he’d privately love it, always loved having a chance to knock his way into Even’s clever head, take a peep inside.

This year, they sit at opposite ends of the couch, as Sigrid and Jan take the sofa on the other side of the room. Isak feels every single inch between them like it burns red hot.

He only lasts about an hour into the movie before feeling his eyelids grow heavy. Something about the food and the comforting environment of being back in the Bech Naesheim living room settles him, slowing his pulse, which is normally rabbit-fast in his veins. He’s distantly aware of Even next to him yawning, but he barely registers it, instead feeling his own eyes drop closed and curling further up in the couch to rest his head against the back of it. He’ll just listen, he decides.

*

He must have fallen asleep, because when he next blearily blinks open his eyes, the room is dark. The only light in the room is coming from the TV screen, which is on the Love Actually title card, dimmed and flickering. Through the gap in the curtains, drawn, he can see that the sky is dark.

Fuck. What time is it?

Isak tries to sit up – where did he leave his phone? – but he suddenly becomes aware of a warm weight against his side. He glances down, and his heart momentarily stops in his chest when he sees Even’s head against his shoulder, face softened in sleep, eyelashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. Somehow they must have migrated towards each other throughout the evening as they both nodded off, because they’re both turned into each other, Even’s long legs still hanging over his end of the couch. His arms are crossed loosely across his chest, head tipped onto Isak’s shoulder, blond hair deflated over the course of the night and now hanging into his eyes. There’s a blanket draped over him, and another one over Isak: when Isak looks over at the couch Even’s parents were sat on, it’s empty. They must have gotten up and gone to bed at some point. He wonders what they must have thought, seeing them like this.

Almost hesitantly, he looks back at Even. He looks so peaceful in his sleep like this, eyelids fluttering as he dreams. He’s so close Isak can feel his soft breaths against his neck, feel the rise and fall of his chest against his side, turned into each other so closely that in the darkness it’s difficult to decipher where Isak ends and Even begins.

It brings back such sharp, vivid memories of times like this they’d spend together when they were still together, dozing off on couches together in the Kollektivet and later their own place, sometimes waking up in the morning with terrible cricks in their neck because they’d accidentally slept the entire night away pretzeled together in front of the television. Isak would always bitch and grouch about it, grumping into his cornflakes, and Even would laugh and joke that he thought _he_ was supposed to be the old one in the relationship.

The memory is enough to almost make Isak’s eyes sting, and he sharply sucks in a breath. Nope. None of that.

He tries to extract his hand from in between them, fuzzy with pins and needles, to try and feel around for his phone, but in doing so he accidentally jostles Even next to him. He holds his breath, but it’s too late, because Even’s eyes are already sleepily blinking open.

“Isak?” His voice is pitched low with sleep, bleary. He inhales sharply, eyes closing again briefly, his cheek turning in to Isak’s shoulder. “What time is it?”

If he’s embarrassed by their position, he doesn’t let it show; sits up without even a flicker of self-consciousness, knuckling at one of his eyes, his hair smushed to one side. It’s a lot more adorable than Isak cares to admit. In the flicker of the TV screen, his eyes look almost bioluminescent.

It’s not until silence descends that Isak realises he’s been asked a question. “Uh,” he says, and then shakes his head to get out of his reverie. “I was just looking for my phone to check.”

“Oh,” Even says softly, and then rests the side of his head against the back of the couch, watching as Isak a little self-consciously pats himself down trying to feel for it. He finally feels it in his back pocket, ass numb from sitting on it for so long, and switches it on with clumsy fingers. “Uh, it’s just past two.”

“In the morning?” Even smiles sleepily. “What rebels.”

Isak huffs a laugh, and, after a moment’s deliberation, mirrors him on the sofa, cushioning his head against the back of the couch, noses a only few inches apart. “Remember when you were a kid,” he says, “and midnight felt so late?”

He doesn’t know why they’re whispering. But Even doesn’t question it, instead matching his own volume.

“Did you ever do a midnight snack? On sleepovers?”

“Once. With Jonas.” They’d felt so naughty, tiptoeing down the stairs to the fridge. There hadn’t been much, only a pot of yoghurt and some green beans, but they’d taken them like they were spoils of war, giggling as they went. “We thought we were the coolest kids on the block.”

“My mum used to call this time of evening the witching hour. When supernatural beings come out.”

Isak raises an eyebrow, teasing. “Do you believe in the supernatural, Even?”

“You don’t?” Isak shakes his head. “Should’ve known. Typical sensible scientist.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

“Tell me, did you ever believe in the Tooth Fairy? Santa? Or did you disprove those with the power of science?”

Isak rolls his eyes, and Even laughs softly, pleased with himself. In the darkness, their voices peter out quickly, until silence descends again, and they just lay there watching each other. Even’s face is washed in blue, like a supernatural being of his own, coming out from the shadowed depths of the sea.

“You know what else my mum used to call this time of night?” he says, voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

“What?”

“The lovers’ hour.”

Isak’s pulse feels like it’s in his ears. “That’s so pretentious.”

Even’s eyebrows raise. “What, you don’t believe it?”

“It feels like some LA bullshit.”

“I believe it,” Even says. “I think.”

“You think?”

Even’s eyes suddenly feel too knowing. “Yeah.”

Isak has to look away, and he sits up. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

He has to bend over to fix his sock, which was halfway through sliding off, and when he glances back at Even, he’s sat up too, propped on an elbow, eyebrows raised. “Show me something? In my own house?”

“Yeah. Put on shoes.”

“Bossy.”

Isak throws a pillow at him, and he ducks, laughing.

They both retrieve their shoes from the front door, Isak sliding his sleep-warm feet into his sneakers. Even’s not wearing his new trainers this time: these are an old pair, worn down and smooth on the soles. Isak recognises these ones. These are from nineteen-year-old Even, left up in his childhood bedroom.

He tries not to think too hard about that.

They pad back through the living room, and Isak carefully unlocks the sliding door at the back of the room with the key Sigrid keeps behind the TV. Even makes a soft noise at surprise at the ease at which Isak finds it, and Isak feels his ears go a little pink. “Come on,” he whispers, and steps over the threshold into the back garden. Sometime during the night it must have started snowing again, because everything is already dusted in a thin coat of white; the snowflakes that catch in Even’s hair look like jewels, backlit by the blue light from the living room.

He leads Even through the damp grass to the end of the garden, shielded by a fringe of trees from the neighbouring garden that have grown to hang, low and weeping, over the back wall. Like this, the strip of bushes beneath it are virtually protected from the snow, reaching skyward.

Isak glances at Even. This deep into the garden, the only light source is the moon, casting Even’s face in silvery light. His mouth is open in wonder. “What are these?”

“Laurel bushes. I planted them with your mum.”

Even’s breath forms clouds in the air. “With Mum?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I just... come around and help with things. If ever I...”

Even glances at him. “If ever you what?”

Isak’s voice is quiet. “If ever I’m missing you.”

Something flickers in Even’s eyes.

Isak glances away, crosses his arms across his chest to fend off the chill. “Anyway, um. Your mum wanted something evergreen, you know, but... well, the flowers don’t come until spring. The leaves do, though. A lot of people use the leaves for wreaths and kissing balls and—”

“I didn’t know you missed me that much,” Even says softly.

Isak clutches his elbows tighter as he huffs out a rueful laugh. “You’re a hard person to forget, Even.”

“You never texted.”

“You didn’t need something holding you back.”

Hurt flashes across his face. “You said you wanted a clean break. That’s what you said.”

“You were going to a different country, Even. You didn’t need something tethering you to your old life.”

“Is that what you think I view you as? A tether?”

Isak’s voice comes out small. “I didn’t want you to grow to resent me.”

Silence. When Isak risks a glance over, Even looks upset. “Isak,” he says, “Isak, I could _never_ —”

“You don’t know that.”

“Why? Why not?”

Isak exhales, eyes stinging. “I don’t know, Even. Because—you’re out there, making movies, winning awards, getting photographed by girls in shopping centres and I’m just. Back here. In university, unable to even get my fucking sutures in a straight line, working two jobs and just—”

“Isak,” Even says.

“We’re leading different lives, okay? And—and that’s fine, I thought it was fine, but then you come back here like—”

“Like what?”

Even’s eyes are imploring. And so much closer.

“Even,” Isak says.

Even takes another step closer, and takes his hand. “Am I misreading this?” he whispers.

“Even—” Isak feels something rise in his throat, every feeling he’s pushed down since he first saw him again in the airport. “Please don’t, not if you don’t mean it—”

“I mean it,” Even says, “ever since I’ve come back it’s all I’ve meant, all I wanted was just—”

It’s all the permission Isak needs.

The first kiss is hesitant, careful, testing the boundaries: _is this okay? After all this time, can I?_ And then they separate, and in the scarce inch between their mouths Even whispers, “Fuck, I missed you so much”, and Isak kisses him again, and again, and again. _Hello_ , they say, _hello, hello, hello, I missed you too._

Isak doesn’t know how long they stand there kissing. It feels simultaneously like a long time and yet not long enough, like now he’s allowed he’s suddenly realised just how little he ever wants to stop touching him. When they finally pull away, Even’s mouth flushed a pretty pink, he has snow caught in his eyelashes and his hair, crystalline in the moonlight, their fingers white and numb from the cold, curled into each other’s shirts. Even’s hands are gentle at the small of his back, and it’s not until one almost subconsciously rucks up his shirt and touches his back, skin to skin, does Isak remember where they are.

“Cold,” he murmurs, “be careful.”

“Yeah?” Even smiles at him, so indulgent, so lovely, that Isak has to kiss him again, cold fingers be damned. When they pull away again, he murmurs, “I can think of one way to warm them up.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“Nothing like a good old-fashioned round of homosexuality to celebrate his birthday.”

“Not his birthday anymore.”

“Feels like _my_ birthday,” Even says, and it’s such a line but he’s so genuine, is the thing, his smile so unbearably, irrevocably happy that Isak kisses him one last time, hard enough that when he pulls back they’re both a little breathless, Even’s eyes clouded.

“Let’s go inside,” he whispers.

Even pushes their foreheads together: just for a moment. “Okay.”

*

“You’re leaving in five days,” Isak says.

It is sometime in the morning. He’s lost track of time: half-forgets that there is a world outside this room, outside this bed, warm, draped in burnt shadows, hazed in sleep. He thinks of the animals in jars at the university, all these prehistoric insects trapped in amber, preserved for all eternity. If he squints, he imagines that he and Even are preserved in amber too, caught in the liminal space of the lovers’ hour to be put in a museum, crowded around. Pointed at, saying, _look at them. The lovers._

They have done nothing but lie here in this bed, talk, kiss. Kiss a lot. It’s not gone any further: the one time Isak tried, Even slowed him down with a small smile and heavy-lidded eyes, said softly, “We’ve got time.” And Isak gets it, because even though he now has this, even though Even is tucked back in his arms and he in Even’s, he’s not ready to go back all the way. He is still refamiliarizing himself with how Even smells, the way Even thumbs at his face whenever he smiles, the weight of his arm around his waist.

But what they don’t have is time. And so:

“You’re leaving in five days.”

Even sighs. This close, Isak can feel it through him as well, a sigh that seems to take them both down. He lifts his head from where it’s resting on Even’s chest, props his chin up on his fist. Thumbs at Even’s the corner of Even’s mouth to get him to smile, and presses his thumbprint into the divot at his bottom lip.

“You’re cute,” Even says.

Isak twists his mouth, a little ruefully, and Even’s smile falls a little; he catches Isak’s hand in his own, brings it to his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, against his knuckles. “I am.”

“What then?”

“I’ll come back.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m not letting you go again. You know that, right? No bullshit.”

Isak watches him. “Even.”

“Not even a question, Isak. We’re not doing that again. Do you know how hard it was for me not to run up to you and kiss you in the airport?”

“You say that now.”

“Yeah, and I’ll keep saying it.” Even kisses his knuckles, the inside of his wrist, and then laces their fingers together. In the haze of the sunrise his eyelashes cast long shadows across his face. “Hey. Minute by minute, remember?”

Isak exhales a soft laugh. “You can’t use that against me.”

“Sure I can. _Isak og Even, minutt for minutt_. Remember?”

Isak heaves a put-about sigh that’s mostly all for show. “Yes, I remember.”

“In this minute, we’re going to kiss. In the minute after that we’re probably going to kiss, too. And then we’re gonna spend the next five days doing whatever we want, just the two of us.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Just us?”

“Maybe I’ll lend you to Mum and Dad. For a bit.”

“What about school?”

“Fuck school.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr Hotshot.”

“What are you doing in school during the Christmas holidays?”

“They’re not official lectures. We’re just trying to finish a project and we need the labs.”

“We. You and... Sana?”

“Yeah.” Isak can’t help the teasing in his voice. “Will you lend me to her for a bit, too?”

Even pokes at his nose with his spare hand. “I forget how much of a bitch you are. Yes. If I have to.”

“That is, if we ever get out of bed.”

“Five days in bed with you doesn’t sound like a hardship.”

And yeah. Isak can’t say it does, either. He nudges his nose closer, kisses him again. “Okay,” he whispers. “Minute by minute.”

*

First, they leave the bed.

Only for food, and a shower, and teeth-brushing, because then they’re back in it, Even’s laptop too, and as Isak comes out of the bathroom in a clean pair of tracksuit pants and a T-shirt – both courtesy of Even – Even pulls him to the bed, already chattering about how for old times’ sake ‘ _Romeo + Juliet_ ’ has to be their first order of business.

“No fucking way,” Isak says, “I think we _both_ have lasting trauma from that film.”

“But Isak—”

“No. Absolutely not.”

They compromise, and watch The Great Gatsby instead.

Personally, Isak sort of hates The Great Gatsby. They read it in school and his only memories are Noora making an insightful point during a class discussion about Nick’s potential homosexual leanings and him feeling like he couldn’t look at her for a month in fear she might infer gay subtext from him as well. Even in spite of that, the movie is too bright and colourful, and he always did prefer young Leo, anyway: but he wouldn’t exchange this moment for the world, laying in between Even’s legs, getting popcorn crumbs in the sheets, reaching over his head to feed Even some, too, Even’s voice low and comforting in his ear as he talks about the aerial shots and the importance of the reoccurring visual motifs. It feels so much like the old times that for a long moment during the movie when Even has gone silent, rapt in awe, he has to close his eyes and convince himself that it’s real: that he’s here, in Even’s arms, even after all this time.

Only it’s different, because this isn’t the old times, this is present day. And in the present day, Isak and Even have money, and time – not a lot, but time nonetheless – and when The Great Gatsby is finished they get dressed in Even’s clothes and go on a walk, holding hands because they can. The snow has settled, a modest three inches up against walls and lampposts, and Isak tramples every pile he can find as he tells Even about school, and Even hangs back, fingers interlaced, watching him with so fond a smile that Isak’s heart just hurts a little watching it. They have no destination, are walking just for the sake of walking, holding hands because they can hold hands, and sometimes Even crowds him against walls and kisses him until their lips are numb and Isak’s toes curl in his shoes just because he can.

“What was that for?” Isak says, the first time, when he pulls away.

“Because you’re cute,” Even says simply. “And I love you.”

It’s the first time either of them has said it this time around. Isak can do nothing except stare at him, a little lost for words, throat thick; find his hand amidst the layers of coats between them and squeeze it, hoping to convey just the magnitude of what he feels back through touch. The way Even smiles at him, soft around the edges, Isak thinks the message was received.

The days go much too fast for him, spinning out of control like a lost ball on a football pitch. Isak gets lost in Even, and Even in Isak: days become arbitrary, filled with nothing but each other, falling into bed with one another, watching movies, feeding each other sweets and making hot chocolate in Isak’s tiny kitchen, bumping hips and elbows. They fall back into place in each other’s so seamlessly it’s as if they never left, like the four years between them just disappeared. Even regales him with tales of his life in California, and Isak tells him about life back here: about Eskild and the rest of the Kollektiv, Eva and Jonas’s life in Bergen, Magnus’s internship across town, Mahdi’s new job in Sweden.

Five days has never felt so full before, so wonderful and precious and remarkable: but also, they’ve never felt so fast.

On the last day, Isak needs to go back into the university to finish his project with Sana. Even pouts and cajoles and connives to keep him in bed when he slides out, like they hadn’t spend the previous two hours doing nothing but lying next to each other, but finally he accepts defeat and lets his grip on Isak’s wrist loosen.

“Fine,” he says. “Desert me.”

Isak gives him a look as he slides on a pair of jeans. “You’ll survive.”

“Will I, though? Our last day.”

“It’ll only be for a few hours.”

Even just hums in response, burrowing deeper into his pillow, watching him from the bed as he gets changed. Isak has to turn away from him: the image of Even in his bed is so compelling that he just wants to get straight back in next to him and hold onto him so tightly he can’t leave for his flight. Isak pulls on a hoodie from the floor that looks clean, and when he turns, Even’s eyes are sleepy, but his smile is still soft.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Isak self-consciously smooths down the hoodie, before glancing down and realising it’s one of Even’s. No wonder the sleeves came down so long. “Just giving you something to remember.”

“Sweet dreams to me,” Even says. He yawns, eyes closing. “Don’t judge me if you get back and I’m still asleep.”

“Never, baby.”

One of Even’s eyes open. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that,” he murmurs, a little shyly. “Baby. I like it.”

Isak smiles at him. “Go to sleep.”

“Need to see you off first.”

“From the bed?”

“Bed-warming. Doing you a favour.”

“Mm.” Because he can’t help himself, Isak steps forward and drops a kiss in Even’s hair. “I’ll see you later.”

“Love you, babe. Kick ass.”

“Will do.”

By the time Isak arrives at the lab, Sana is already there, just shrugging on her lab coat. She looks up when he enters and smirks at him.

“You’re late,” she says.

“By two minutes.” He nods at the snowflakes still caught in her hijab. “Like you didn’t arrive thirty seconds ago.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Hm.”

Isak grins when he’s turned around and sure she can’t see.

They’ve only got a little bit left to do, just finalising the report, so as Sana types up the last of their notes Isak absently drops scraps of paper onto a Bunsen burner. He means to concentrate and pay attention, but he can’t help how his mind wanders. He and Even only have a few precious left after this before Even gets on his plane for his flight back to Los Angeles, and while Isak isn’t sure what’s going to happen afterwards, he wants to make the most of their fleeting time together. He’s just considering the merits of buying a can of whipped cream just in case Even has no longer gets off on emotionally-charged eye contact during sex when all of a sudden the flame of the Bunsen burner switches off.

“Hey,” he says mildly.

“Are even you paying attention?” Sana says.

“Totally.”

“What was I just saying?”

Fuck. “How we’re so going to ace this project?”

“Yeah, not even close.” Isak expected that. “Is it Even?”

Isak grins. “Are we having boy talk right now, Sana? Is that what’s going on?”

Sana rolls her eyes, but Isak can tell she’s fighting a smile by the way she purses her lips together. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Do we get to talk about Yousef afterwards?”

“We’re not at that level of friendship yet.”

“Why do you get to hear about Even, then?”

“Are you saying you _don’t_ want to talk about Even?”

She’s got him there. “Touché.”

“So?”

Isak looks back at the paper still held between his pliers, dangling over the unlit Bunsen burner. He lets it go, and watches as it flutters unharmed down to the tabletop. “Today’s his last day,” he says. “He’s leaving in the morning.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sana’s face twist a little in sympathy. “What are you going to do?”

“Seduce him, probably.”

“I meant after.”

“Oh.” Isak feels his ears go pink, and Sana smirks. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“What am I meant to do, Sana? He’s going halfway across the world. He wants to do long-distance, but...”

Sana’s voice is careful. “You don’t?”

There’s a long pause. “I love him so much.”

“But.”

“He doesn’t need me holding him back.”

“Why would you be holding him back?”

“He’s so talented. He’s going to do such big things. I mean, you know what he’s done so far, and he’s—fuck, he’s not even twenty-five, and he’s already won all these awards and had all these prestigious film societies laud him in praise and—what the hell do I have to offer, to any of that? Even doesn’t need something keeping him from going out to parties and meeting people. He deserves someone who will—I don’t know. Be with him as he wins his Oscar. Not someone back here in Bumfuck, Europe probably still in fucking education.”

He risks a glance at Sana, who looks thoughtful. “Have you asked how Even feels about that?”

“He doesn’t think that’s true.”

“There you go.”

“But—”

“Isak,” Sana says, and Isak’s mouth snaps shut. “For one of the smartest people I know, you can be a fucking idiot.”

Isak sniffs a little. “You think I’m smart?”

“You know I think you’re smart. I wouldn’t keep asking to do group projects together if I thought you were hopeless. Vilde is in one of my Biology lectures and do you see me racing to pair up with her whenever we need to do presentations? What you are not is wise.”

Isak’s a little stung. “I’m plenty fucking wise.”

“Are you? Because a wise person wouldn’t leap to conclusions like this. Even said himself that he wants to do long-distance with you. You clearly both care for each other. And look how poorly it turned out when you broke up for the first time – you ended back together anyway.”

Isak sucks his lower lip into his mouth, considering.

“Look,” Sana says, “do you remember in second year, when Yousef went away to Turkey? I wasn’t sure what was going to happen then either. We weren’t even properly dating at that point; I wasn’t even sure I _wanted_ to date him because he wasn’t Muslim. Mama always told me that marrying a Muslim was important because it meant that while we may disagree on some things, we’d agree on all the important things, like how to raise children, or what to do if one of us was struggling with our faith. And maybe if we do have children, or when I do start to falter in my faith, Yousef might not be able to help me in the way a Muslim could. So, you know, maybe you will get hurt if you choose to stay with Even when he leaves. In the same way Yousef might not be able to help me with my problems, you might not be able to help Even with his. But don’t you think it’s at least worth a _try_?”

Isak stares down at the table. “But what if everyone goes to shit?” he whispers. “What if Even ends up hating me?”

“Then at least you can say you gave it a go. At least you won’t have to worry about what could’ve happened.”

The piece of paper he dropped rustles in the faint breeze from one of the opened windows. Isak stares at it, his throat thick. He imagines what it would be like trying to navigate long-distance: phone calls and FaceTimes at inopportune moments of the days, hours between each text as they tried to accommodate time differences, Skype calls that last well into the night, giggling into their phones as they try and synchronise Netflix watches, Even talking over most of it. Isak curling up alone on his sofa, watching clips of Even on YouTube as he talks through inspiration for his latest movie, subtitles on because Isak’s English isn’t as good as Even’s. Isak never being there for any of Even’s wins, or losses, or anything in between. Lying in bed at night, arm outstretched over Even’s side, imagining that across the sea Even is doing the same.

But then he imagines he alternative. Breaking up with Even at the airport, kissing him goodbye for the last time: and it would be, because they’ll get too old for the back and forth eventually, and Even will meet someone that will keep him in Los Angeles. Listlessly drifting through the days like he did the first time Even left, only with the crippling knowledge that it could have been different. That they could have had it, if only he hadn’t been so goddamn scared.

There’s only ever been one answer: except last time, he was just too afraid.

“Jesus, Sana,” he says. He tries to aim for levity but his voice cracks a little. “That was really smart.”

She lifts a shoulder in a show of faux modesty, but her eyes are soft. “What can I say.”

“Jesus.” Isak sniffs, hard. “Fuck you. Why do you have to make sense?”

“It’s my hijab,” Sana says. “It has magic powers.”

“You suck.”

“I’d keep that instruction for later.”

It’s so unexpected that a wet sort of laugh escapes from his throat the same time as a tear runs down his cheek, and he ducks away, scrubbing at his face, annoyed with himself for being so pathetic. Sana notices, though, and she rolls her eyes.

“Oh, come here, Valtersen,” she says, and wraps her arms around him. He lets out another noise that falls somewhere between a sob and a laugh and hugs her back. It’s a little stiff from the heavy lab coats they’re both wearing, and he feels the safety glasses on top of his head knock against her earrings, but it’s still a damn good hug. He can’t remember they last time they hugged like this; in fact, he’s not sure they ever have.

He makes a note to hug her more often. They could both use it.

At that moment, there comes a gentle rap at the door, and when they pullback and Isak glances over his shoulder he’s surprised to see Even in the doorway, his coat dusted in snow, knuckles resting against the doorjamb with a smile on his face.

“Am I interrupting anything?” he says. His voice is mild, unaccusatory, but his eyes fall upon Isak’s face, no doubt splotchy and red, and his expression creases in concern.

Isak quickly turns away from him, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his lab coat. Smoothly, Sana says, “Isak just splashed a little solution in his eye. Forever the occupational hazard.”

“Fuck you,” he says, muffled. He quickly meets her eyes, mouths, _am I good?_ and she rolls her eyes, which he infers as the affirmative. He turns back to face Even, who looks like he doesn’t believe a word she just said, but his expression is more fond than concerned now. “Even, hey. I didn’t know you were stopping by.”

“I was just coming to pick you up.” Even glances between the two of them. “I didn’t come at a bad time, did I?”

“No, it’s okay. We were just finishing up.”

“ _I_ was just finishing up,” Sana corrects. “ _You_ were messing around.” To emphasise, she flicks the piece of scrap paper still on the table, and it flutters to the ground.

Even grins at her. “Sana. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But her eyes are warm. “You too. You look well.”

“It’s the California tan.”

“It’s not a tan, babe,” Isak says. “Sorry.”

“It’s totally a tan. Or maybe it’s just the glow I develop from being around you.”

“Jesus,” Isak mutters to the sound of Even and Sana’s laughter, feeling his ears burn bright red despite himself. Only Even can make something like that sound in any way sweet. “You had something very urgent to show me, Even? That doesn’t involve me being here?”

“Good to see that subtlety still isn’t a strong suit,” Even says, smiling wide, but he holds out his arm as Isak drapes his lab coat over his chair, picks up his bag and approaches him. Isak knows that Sana’s still watching them but he can’t help the way his own hand reaches out to lace their fingers together, stepping close enough to kiss his cheek. “Nice seeing you, Sana.”

“You, too,” Sana says, voice amused. “You boys have fun.”

“Trust me,” Even says, “we will.”

Isak yelps a little, and jabs Even in the ribs as he snickers next to him, pressing his forehead against the side of his face. “Goodbye, Sana,” he says pointedly, before using their joined hands to drag Even away. “See you later.”

The door closes on the sound of her laughter.

As soon as Isak is sure they’re out of earshot, he crowds Even against the wall, hands briefly separating as he finds Even’s waist through the layers of his jackets he’s wearing. Somewhere along the five days he stopped wearing the size-too-small coat and instead made it his mission to layer as many shirts on top of each other before _artsy_ becomes _excessive_. Isak takes great pleasure in peeling every layer off him every night. 

“You,” he murmurs, “are a workplace distraction.”

“Me? Never.” Even’s own hands find their way to the small of Isak’s back, pulling him in even closer, until they’re pressed together knees-hips-chests. Isak almost melts into him as he dusts kisses across the tops of his cheeks, one on each eyelid, one at the end of his nose, and then one on the tear track, half-tacky, snaking down the side of his face. “What’s this about?”

“Overactive tear ducts.”

“Mm.” Even kisses him again. “You wanna try telling the truth, now?”

Isak sighs, hands sliding around Even’s waist until they bump into each other at his back. “I just... I love you. You know that, right?”

Even’s face softens, and he leans close, nudges their noses together. “I do.”

“And it sucks that you have to leave. And I don’t want you to.”

“I know.”

“But...”

Even pauses. “But?”

“But I think I want to try make it work. Between us. When you’re gone.”

Isak feels Even’s exhale against his cheek. “You... really want to?”

“I’ve spent four years hating that I didn’t try. And now that I have you again I just... I can’t. The universe gave us a second chance, which it doesn’t do a lot, not to me. I can’t let you slip away again, not without a fight.”

“Isak Valtersen,” Even breathes, “I do believe that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I have my moments.”

“Mm.” Even kisses him again, and again, until Isak’s hands have snaked their way through his numerous shirts and just shying the skin of his bare back. “You think there’s a parallel universe where we managed to get it right the first time?”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “But I wouldn’t change this for the world.”

*

That night, Even presents Isak with dinner, homemade spaghetti and meatballs made from scratch with the scant few ingredients from Isak’s fridge and a few more things Even got from the grocery store. They get a tipsy on wine and after their plates have been licked clean and they’ve both shared a slice of cake, using the same plate and battling with forks over who gets the icing (Isak) and who gets the last bite (Even), they move to Isak’s bed.

As it turns out, Even is still into emotionally charged eye contact as he ever was.

Afterwards, as they lie there, satiated, curled into each other, arms slung over each other’s waists like they can’t bear to let each other go, Isak says, “Can we watch your movie?”

Even looks down at him, trailing one finger over his shoulders like he’d always do to make him shiver. “My movie?”

“The one you made in Los Angeles. That won the awards.”

“Underwater?”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t seen it?”

“I tried. Once. But I... couldn’t.” There’s a long pause, and Isak screws his eyes shut. “Sorry, it was stupid suggestion—”

“No, no. It wasn’t.” Even trails his finger back and forth. Isak counts seven beats before he says, “Okay. Where’s your laptop?”

Isak has to roll out of Even’s arms to retrieve it on his bedside table, and Even makes a discontented sound as he does, tugging him back in almost immediately, arms around his waist. Isak lets out a surprised sound, clutching his laptop to his chest so it doesn’t fall, and then huffs out a laugh when Even brushes kisses down his neck. “You’re so needy.”

“Needy for you.”

“That wasn’t even remotely clever.”

“Lucky you’re only with me for my looks, then. Pass your laptop.”

Isak does, and Even situates them so they’re tucked in close together, legs tangled beneath the duvet, the laptop balanced between them. He doesn’t take his arm out from where it’s around Isak so he works one-handedly, opening up YouTube and typing _Underwater Even Bech Naesheim_ into the search bar. It’s the first thing to show up, the thumbnail simply two people curled around each other on a bed, not dissimilar to how he and Even are lying right now, only clothed and above the covers. It’s only fifteen minutes.

Even doesn’t say anything as he presses on it, and the video loads. The screen is dark for a moment, nothing but faint music playing over the top, and then the scene opens: the image from the thumbnail, only larger. Two boys, turned into each other like parenthesis, an entire novel’s worth of words unspoken in the gap between them, evident in the way their hands are laced, how one strokes his hand through the other’s hair as he talks. It’s soft, hazed in amber, like early morning light.

This is as far as Isak got the first time before he switched it off. Now, he watches, as one, the boy with the dark hair, says, “Do you believe in the multiverse?”

“Like Spiderman?” says the other.

“Sort of. It’s based on a theory that time is a dimension. That, aside from this universe, there are other universes out there, and whenever you make a decision, it splits. There might be a universe where we’re lying here, except... except the curtains are a different colour.”

Isak can’t breathe.

“So... yellow curtains?”

“Yeah. Yellow curtains.”

“This is us,” Isak says softly. “You made a movie about us.”

“I said I would.”

“The boy who couldn’t hold his breath underwater.”

“The title was too long. Had to cut it down to just—”

“Underwater.”

“Yeah. Just Underwater.”

“Even...”

“You could never just be a tether, Isak.”

“I never knew.”

“I know.”

Isak turns his face into Even’s shoulder. “You’re not making it easier for me to let you go.”

Even exhales a laugh. “Yeah. That was the plan.”

*

The morning dawns wintry and pale.

The alarm goes off at quarter to six. Together, they climb out of bed, wincing at the cold, climb into the shower together and slowly wake up in the hot spray; towel each other dry as they climb out, and then slowly get dressed.

Delaying the inevitable, hoping that the extra handful of seconds they take pulling on their jumpers are an extra few seconds they can spend together.

It’s snowing by the time they emerge from Isak’s apartment block, like the universe’s most unsubtle symmetry. Even loads his suitcase into the boot of Dumptruck and then Isak revs the engine, steers the car in the direction of Even’s parents’ home, to pick up the last of his things and say goodbye to his parents.

Isak stays in the car as he does. He doesn’t think he can bear one more goodbye.

The airport is just starting to become busy as they arrive, full of people, half-asleep on their feet, swaying by their suitcases, checking flight passes, hugging people goodbye. Even’s footsteps slow as they enter, like for the first time he’s realising what they’re walking towards, but Isak gently tugs him forward with their intertwined hands. He doesn’t intend on holding it all throughout checkout as Even gets his ticket printed and his bag checked in, but Even doesn’t let go, so he doesn’t, either.

But then, after Even’s bag has been sent off and his ticket stamped, Isak can’t go on any further.

“Even,” he says.

Even pulls him into a hug, just like he did at this same airport five days ago, only this time:

This time, Isak properly hugs him back.

Arms around his shoulders, clutching at his jacket, pressing his nose into Even’s throat, up on his toes so he can reach. Even still smells of him, of his shampoo and his soap, and his hair is soft and shower-damp like it always used to be in the mornings when he’d wash it the night before, and when they pull back, enough that they can look each other in the eyes, and Even kisses him, hands either side of his face, Isak touches the pink faded string around his wrist, feels his pulse beneath it, and thinks:

_Okay. We’ll be okay._

“I love you,” Even says. “In every universe. This has been one of the most special Christmases of my whole life.”

Isak smiles at him, a little wobbly. “I love you too.”

“I’ll text you as soon as I’m on the plane. And when I land. And when I’m home.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you tonight.”

“Okay.”

Even exhales a laugh, his eyes a little teary, too. “What are you smiling about, you loon?”

“Nothing.” Isak nudges their noses together. “I just love you.”

“Don’t be romantic now. I’ll never leave.”

“No.” With heroic restraint, Isak steps out of the circle of his arms, pushes a little at his chest. “Catch your flight, superstar. I’ll be here.”

Even catches his hand before it falls. “I’ll dream about you.”

“I still have time to break up with you.”

“If you want it to be a threat you gotta sound like you mean it.”

“What do I sound like?”

“Like you don’t want to let me go.”

Isak smiles at him, and then lets his hand slip out of Even’s grip. “Go.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Even takes a step back. And then another. And another.

“Love you,” he says.

“Watch where you’re going.”

“Man of my dreams.”

“Go, Even,” Isak says.

And so:

Even goes.

*

Isak watches him disappear through the terminal with a pang in his chest, hands in his pockets. If he concentrates hard enough he can still feel Even’s hands on his body, his hand around his wrist, his lips against his cheek, his finger tracing the length of his nose. All at once he is so, so unbearably sad that he feels it like a blow in the chest.

But then, in the depths of his pocket, he feels his phone vibrate: a text from Even, doubtless, already, about airport coffee, or a funny hat he saw as he walked in, or what he’s going to buy from the McDonalds in the terminal for breakfast that would make a doctor like Isak roll over in disgust at.

And Isak:

Isak thinks, _we’ll be okay._

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://smileymikey.tumblr.com/)


End file.
